A Silken Seduction

by Yvonne Lindsay

  Marcus refused to be goaded into a response, instead taking a sip of the fine single malt liquor and allowing himself a moment to appreciate it. He was surprised when Rothschild changed his conversational tack, and began to prove himself to be a consummate host. Under other circumstances, Marcus could almost have enjoyed himself. In fact, it was easy to see how Ann may have been drawn into this particular spider’s web. But at the back of his mind was the fact that his host never appeared to do anything without an ulterior motive, and while Marcus’s every instinct urged him to go home to his wife, where he belonged, he owed it to Ann to find out what that motive was.

  It wasn’t until they were at the ornately set dining table and enjoying a particularly fine glass of merlot with their meal that Rothschild finally got to the point of their meeting.

  “I’ll stop beating around the bush, Price. I admire your work ethic. Your results with Waverly’s have been nothing short of outstanding. You’re wasted there. That particular house of cards is not far from falling and when it does fall, it’s not going to be pretty. I’d hate to see you caught up in the debris. I want you to come and work for me.” Rothschild named a key position and a salary that just about made Marcus’s teeth ache. “And I want you to bring the Cullen Collection with you.”

  Rothschild certainly knew how to make an offer appealing, Marcus thought. If he’d been raised with less scruples than he had, he’d have jumped at the offer.

  “That’s a very generous offer,” Marcus conceded, not being drawn into giving a more definite response.

  “But?”

  “But I won’t accept.”

  “You won’t? Come now, Marcus—I can call you Marcus, can’t I?” Rothschild asked with a smile, directing the full force of his charisma toward his guest. “You’re an intelligent man, and an astute one. Do you really wish to see your hard-fought-for reputation sullied by working for Ann Richardson?

  “I know how hard you worked to get where you are today—it’s not every kid from your background who manages to break free of the mold and achieve what you have so far. With the right support, who knows where you might be in another ten years? Maybe even in my chair at Rothschild’s.” He gave an elegant shrug.

  “I’m flattered you researched me so thoroughly,” Marcus replied with a smile that gave no clue to the fury that remained on a slow boil inside him.

  “Oh, I’m a very thorough man, Marcus. Which is why I’m surprised you’ve tagged your allegiance to someone like Ann Richardson. She’s dealing in stolen artifacts, you know that, don’t you? It won’t be long before she’s exposed for the fraud she truly is. And let’s not forget the matter of trying to get me to collude with her earlier. She’s a nasty piece of work. When she falls, and she will, everyone at Waverly’s, from the top down, will be tarred with the same brush.”

  Marcus’s fingers tightened on the delicate stem of the Waterford crystal goblet in his hand. He deliberately put the glass back down on the table before he broke it, but only out of respect for the craftsmanship of the maker, not its owner. It was sickening hearing the lengths Rothschild was prepared to go to in his quest to destroy his rival.

  Ann Richardson was in no way capable of the duplicity that his host had accused her of; Marcus knew that to the depths of his soul. The woman had integrity and she had believed in Marcus from the very start of his career with Waverly’s. It was that belief in him that had given him the impetus he needed to move through the ranks in the company faster than even he’d anticipated. Her actions, her support, her encouragement—none of it had been the action of a duplicitous person.

  In many ways Ann had reminded Marcus of his grandfather. Honorable to a fault and prepared to stand by those she believed in, she’d employed him fresh from college. Ann had actively encouraged his more ambitious ideas, while using judiciously given guidance at the same time. He owed a lot to her, including his unswerving loyalty.

  “You present a passionate argument, Mr. Rothschild,” Marcus said, holding on to civility by a thread. “However you have forgotten one very important aspect.”

  “Oh, really? And what might that be?”

  Marcus was pleased to see his comment had wiped some of the smugness off the man’s handsome face.

  “The truth,” he said bluntly. “Thank you for this evening, it’s been most enlightening, and thank you for your offer, which I refuse.” He rose from the table, pushing his chair back on the highly polished floor with a loud scrape. “Don’t worry about seeing me out, I can find my own way.”

  * * *

  Avery jumped up from the sofa when she heard Marcus’s key in the lock. Her legs trembled beneath her as she stood waiting for him to come in. In the two hours since she’d left Peter Cameron’s loathsome company she had a lot of time to think, and the thinking had brought her to a decision.

  People had used her for her money and her contacts ever since she’d been in kindergarten. She should have seen this coming. She was absolutely the worst kind of fool to have been taken in by some slick Bostonian fraud. As she’d fought through the numbed shock Peter’s revelations had wrought, she’d begun to wonder if everyone at Waverly’s wasn’t like Marcus. After all, there had been a great deal of negative publicity about them so far. Maybe there was an element of truth to it after all.

  It was too late to withdraw her assignation of the sale rights of her father’s artworks, and the knowledge made her feel slightly ill. She’d been thoroughly duped—more the fool herself. What was that old saying? Fool me once, shame on you—fool me twice, shame on me? Well the shame was hers to bear, and bear it she would. But not here. Not with Marcus. And, if she had her way, she’d never have to see him again after tonight.

  She heard Marcus come in through the door and she waited for his reaction when he saw the luggage she had waiting in the foyer.

  “What the— Avery, what’s going on?”

  She fought the twist of her heart as she saw him when he came into the room, his face a mixture of anger and confusion.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “What? But why?”

  Was he so confident of himself, of his appeal to her, that it had never crossed his mind that she might find out his lies? Her eyes burned with the sting of unshed tears and she looked up to the ceiling for a moment in an attempt to halt their fall.

  “I should have thought the why would be obvious to someone as astute as you.”

  His face hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Tell me, Marcus, why did you really come to London?”

  “It was never a secret. You know I came to persuade you to agree to sell your father’s collection. I’d tried through the usual routes, which you very effectively blocked, so I approached you directly. I don’t get it. I thought you were happy with your decision. Are you saying you want to withdraw from the sale?”

  “And would that matter to you?” she asked.

  “Of course it would matter, but if that’s what you really wanted then that’s what would happen. I only want you to be happy.”

  He reached out to take her hands in his but Avery took a step back.

  “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

  Marcus reacted as if she’d slapped him. “Tell me, Avery. What’s wrong? What’s upset you so much?”

  She drew in a leveling breath, determined to see this through. It would be so easy to give in, to tell him she was just being irrationally moody. Every cell, every nerve in her body begged her to do that—to close the yawning distance between them and to press her body against his, to take from him what he had so readily given her. But her head and her heart urged caution, because while he’d given freely of his body, he had withheld the truth.

  “Do you remember when I went to that gallery opening in London, and I came home early?”

  “Of course I do. You were upset.”<
br />
  “Did you ever wonder why?”

  He huffed a sigh of impatience. “Of course I wondered why, but I figured it was your business and if you wanted me to know about it, you’d tell me.”

  Avery suddenly wished she had. Maybe it would have given him an opening, a chance to come clean with the truth rather than her forcing it from him now.

  “I bumped into a mutual acquaintance, Peter Cameron, that night.”

  Marcus face twisted in a scowl. “He’s no acquaintance of mine.”

  “Well, for someone who isn’t even an acquaintance of yours, he seemed to know an awful lot about you. Things he felt it was important for me to know, too.”

  “Is that right? What sort of things?” Marcus shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels as if telling her that no matter what she had to say, it couldn’t hurt him. His body language intimating he was as open as he could be.

  “Things about your background. Your parents.”

  “So he told you my mother was a junkie who died in jail, and my father was the no-good drug pusher who made that all happen?” His face remained expressionless, but he wasn’t able to hide the dark pain in his eyes. “I was a baby when that happened. My past is not who I am.”

  “I know that!” she snapped. “What he told me then didn’t matter. It just showed me how determined you were to succeed despite everything. He actually did you a service. He helped me to understand why you are so driven to be the best, why doing well is so important to you.”

  “So why are you leaving me if I’m apparently such a paragon?” A note of bitterness colored his voice.

  “Because he asked to meet me tonight.”

  “And you went? After he upset you so much the last time? Why?”

  “Why isn’t really important.”

  “Like hell it isn’t! Tell me, Avery. Why did you go when you knew he would only have more crap to dish out?”

  She swallowed against the lump that had built in her throat. “He had something to tell me. Something you probably should have told me when we met, to be honest. It might have made a difference.”

  “Something I should have told you?” Marcus looked confused. “Like what? Do I get a chance to refute what he said? A chance to give you the truth, which I seriously doubt you heard from the likes of Peter Cameron.”

  “Tell me now, then. Tell me who you are,” Avery demanded. “Tell me exactly who you are—going back, oh, let’s say, three generations.”

  She saw the moment he realized she knew the truth.

  “Lovely Woman.”

  “So you don’t refute what Peter said?”

  “Of course I don’t. I can’t deny the truth.”

  She had thought she couldn’t hurt any more than she had up to this moment. But she’d been wrong. She gave a bitter laugh. “Although you want to, don’t you? You know, if you’d been honest with me from the start I might have considered selling her to you, for the right reasons. But now?” She gave a sharp shake of her head. “You can forget ever so much as seeing the painting again. You lied to me all along, about why you wanted to represent Dad’s collection, about why you wanted Lovely Woman included. When have you ever been a hundred percent truthful with me, Marcus? When?”

  The silence between them stretched out uncomfortably. Unable to stand it any longer Avery bent and picked up her handbag from the sofa.

  “Thanks for at least not lying to me now. You know, I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. Owning Lovely Woman was all that mattered to you, wasn’t it? I was merely a means to an end. Tell me, is that why I’m carrying your baby? Did you feel you had to trap me, force me into a corner and that I’d somehow let you get ahold of the painting then? Is that why you married me? Why you used my love for you against me?” Tears fell unchecked down her cheeks.

  “Listen to yourself, Avery. You’re talking crazy. Of course I didn’t entrap you.” Marcus shoved a hand through his hair. A hand that to Avery’s stunned surprise was shaking. “Sure, I went to London to try to persuade you to part with the collection. Yes, I am Kathleen O’Reilly’s great-grandson and, yes, I did want to buy the painting back. Yes, I was frustrated when you wouldn’t agree to let it go. But it’s not what you think. I didn’t deliberately get you pregnant to make you marry me so I could get the painting.”

  “So you’re saying that when we found out I was pregnant that the thought never even crossed your mind?” Her eyes bored into his and she could see the damning truth there. “I’m booked on the 11:00 p.m. flight back to London and I’ll be instructing my lawyer to start divorce proceedings as soon as I land.”

  “Avery, please, don’t do this,” he implored.

  “Goodbye, Marcus.”

  Fourteen

  He wanted to follow her right now more than he even wanted to draw another breath—to halt her in her tracks, to drag her back to his apartment and convince her that it hadn’t all been a lie. To tell her he loved her. But the rational side of him knew that she wouldn’t believe him. In fact she’d probably throw his declaration straight back in his face and accuse him of continuing to try to manipulate her.

  And he had manipulated her in the beginning. It was an ugly and unpalatable truth. He’d seen her attraction to him right from the start and he had lacked the scruples to simply walk away, especially once she’d shown him the painting.

  That said, his own growing feelings for her had been genuine, he knew that now. He’d tried to ignore them, but love had inveigled its way through the shell he’d worn about him for so long. A shell he’d believed to be stronger than it was, when in truth it—no, he—was as vulnerable as the next person. And now the woman to whom he was that vulnerable man had walked away from him, carrying their child within her.

  Chasing after Avery right now would be futile. She was hurting too much inside, and the knowledge that he’d caused that hurt cut him deeply. Beneath her hurt, though, he’d sensed her anger. Anger she’d had every right to feel. So he’d give her some space, for now.

  It wouldn’t be forever, though—he wasn’t about to give up. Eventually she’d have to see him, or at least talk to him—if only to update him on her pregnancy and the birth of their baby. He knew he’d eventually have access to their son or daughter, but that was a long way off and he wanted access now. Access to Avery and to a chance to start their marriage anew. This time to start it on the right footing.

  Frustration saw him swear a blue streak. There was little to nothing he could do now. He’d made his bed, as his Grampa was fond of saying, now he had to lie in it. Damn his stupid pride, Marcus thought as he paced the living-room floor for what felt like the hundredth time. He should have told Avery why he’d wanted the painting so much, why he owed his grandfather so much. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t admit out loud that it was all his fault his grandfather had sold the painting in the first place.

  Even though he’d said to her that his past was not who he was now, in many ways it was. Logically he knew he hadn’t made a choice to be born to parents who lacked even the basic human goodness to care for their only son, but deep down he felt responsible. If it hadn’t been for him, his grandfather would still have Lovely Woman today.

  The Price family had never had riches, certainly not the kind of riches the Cullens had taken for granted all their privileged lives. But they’d had one another. One another and a link to the past, to family, with the painting. With that gone, their final link had been severed.

  The canvas had become a symbol to Marcus of all that his family had sacrificed. Kathleen sacrificed her integrity, her job and her family’s security—all because a wealthy man had found her beautiful. Grampa had sacrificed the one thing he had of any genuine value—all for Marcus. Was it so bad to have wanted to return the picture to his grandfather?

  It must have been. Because now Marcus had p
aid the ultimate price himself. He’d lost the woman he loved. But he refused to believe it was forever. He hadn’t gotten where he was now by letting fear of failure hold him back. He knew how to get what he wanted, he always had, and he wasn’t afraid to work hard for it.

  Somehow, he had to prove to Avery that he was worth taking a chance on. That Lovely Woman didn’t even factor into his feelings for her. He thought back to the one thing, the only thing, she’d ever asked of him—to find her angel statue. In the excitement of returning to New York and discovering she was pregnant he’d let his leads run cold.

  He’d failed Avery on so many levels and failure wasn’t something that sat comfortably upon his shoulders. He had to find the statue and return it to her so she could believe he had done it for her, and for her alone. Maybe then she’d believe him when he told her he loved her.

  Marcus retrieved his laptop from its case and went to work. Work had always been his age-old panacea. It was proven—for what he put in, he’d get something out. It was something he could draw upon no matter what.

  When he finally took a rest, he noticed daylight had begun to break. Weariness dragged at every muscle and fiber in his body and he was no closer to finding the current owner of the angel statue. He looked at the time. Avery’s flight would be getting into London by now. Knowing she was so far away made the distance between them a physical pain, but somehow he had to work through it. Somehow he had to drive himself to function, to do what he had to do to get her back—he could not fail. Not in this.

  He went through to the bathroom and jerked on the shower faucets, letting steam fill the air as he stripped himself of his clothing. Would she go home first and rest? he wondered. Or would she go straight to her lawyer and put in motion the end of everything he now held vitally dear to him?

  Marcus stepped into the shower stall, closing his eyes as he stood under the pounding deluge of water. Then and only then did he finally give in to the overwhelming ache in his chest, and let go of the sob that had been building inside from the moment his front door had banged closed behind her. Tears mingled with the water running down his cheeks. Tears for his family—his lost and misguided mother, his just and honorable grandfather—and tears for his own stupidity in destroying the one thing he’d thought never to have in his life. The unequivocal love of the woman he loved equally and unmistakably in return.